Freedom or Death

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Noemi began to cry. Kostoas put his arm round her. “How did you escape?”

  “I don’t know. It was like a dream… . Don’t ask me!” she cried, suddenly.

  Kosmas stroked her hair. “I won’t. Be calm now.” Then Kosmas asked, “Where did you mean to go this evening? Why were you in such a hurry?”

  Noemi raised her head. “I had come to a decision,” she whispered. “What decision?”

  “A friend gave me this orange blouse. I washed and did my hair properly and was going” She paused and added quietly, “to kill myself. To be out of it all.” Kosmas kissed her hands. “Come with me, Noemi.” “But where?”

  “Trust me. I don’t know if I love you, but I won’t desert you. Everybody’s deserted you, but I won’t.”

  In the darkness of the park Kosmas could not see her face. He could feel that the orphaned girl was questioning her own thoughts. Suddenly Noemi raised her head and said, quietly and decisively: “I’ll go with you.” She had given him her hand… .

  The moon vanished; the bed lay in darkness. The mother and sister were still chatting softly downstairs, and Kosmas listened to their monotonous voices, like running water. A dog howled. From the yard rose the scent of basil, which had accompanied all his youth. Basil, marjoram, gillyflowers and jasmine were old and dear companions. Kosmas took a deep breath.

  This is my country, he thought, this is the house where I was born, this is my wife… .

  He heard the window of his sister’s room open. It must be near midnight. He listened. Footsteps sounded in the treet; a nocturnal wanderer was passing by. A longing, perplexed voice floated out of the window: “Is it already past midnight? Is it already past midnight?” The footsteps stopped, and the window was violently shut. Kosmas shuddered.

  “My God,” he murmured. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Now he could not sleep. With wide-open eyes he waited for morning. When at last he saw the sky growing light, he slipped from the bed, so as not to wake his wife, dressed, went downstairs, and sat on the divan in the place where his father used to sit. He wanted to challenge the dead man, to drive him from the house and courtyard to which he clung, and to bolt the door behind him so that he might never come back and harm his wife.

  Ancient dreads had awakened in him. It was in vain that in the land of the Franks he had tried to free his mind from them. His heart was still a dark cave full of specters.

  The sister appeared, yellow and sullen in the morning light. When she saw her brother sitting in the old man’s place, she started back in terror. Ever since that night when her father had seized her by the hair and barred her from all men, a hatred had been raging in her that had follqwed her father even into the grave. Each night she opened her trunks and examined the trousseau she had made with her own hands: the nightdresses with the wide lace sleeves, the embroidered kerchiefs, the silken sheets. Sometimes the impulse came over her to throw the whole lot into the yard and burn it there. “My winding sheets! Curse him!” She would also open the cupboard containing his suits and would whimper like a bitch that has suddenly scented a wolfskin; but she never touched these clothes. She reproached her mother for never having resisted him.

  She had loved her brother until yesterday, when she had realized that he was married. Immediately she loathed his wife.

  “Maria,” her mother had said to’her, “be patient.” “Damn patience,” she had replied. “I’d rather kill myself than go on seeing her.”

  As her brother now greeted her, she could not control herself and burst into tears. Kosmas put his arms round her.

  “Keep calm, sister,” he said. “Life’s going to be different, you too will have joy.”

  She shook her gray head. “I’m marrying Charos for my joy,” she said, pushed her brother away and left the room.

  Kosmas went out into the yard for a breath of air. But suddenly disquiet came over him. Had someone sighed in the room upstairs? He ran upstairs to his wife.

  She was asleep. Her slender foot peeped out from under the sheet: he bent down and kissed it. He stroked her hair softly. A warm breath smelling of carnations came from her slightly open mouth.

  As he brought his lips close to her mouth, he thought he heard the stairs creak. Slow footsteps were coming up. It was the old man, the dead man! He recognized the tread. As though turned to stone he sat up on the bed. He held his breath and listened. The stairs creaked again, the heavy footsteps came nearer. They had reached the landing.

  “The old man,” murmured Kosmas, terrified, and spread his hands above his wife to protect her.

  The footsteps halted before the door. The son’s heart beat wildly. The whole house seemed to be shaking. He wanted to cry out, but bis throat was blocked.

  At that moment, Noemi awoke with a shriek. She stared toward the door, and the sweat poured over her. Kosmas put his arms round her.

  “What’s the matter?” he said softly. “Did you hear something?”

  “Someone came up the stairs. Someone’s standing behind the door.” She was trembling.

  “Don’t be afraid. You’ve had a dream. Look, and you’ll see it’s nothing.”

  He jumped up, He tried to hide his own trembling. He flung the door open. Nobody. He laughed carelessly, to give her courage. He returned to her, covered her up, and kissed her shaking knees.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “This is your home, Noemi.”

  The young woman looked about her, at the table, the chest, the window and the icon-shrine with the three icons: the Creation, the Crucifixion, and Saint Michael.

  “Yes,” she said, “This is my home. I shall get used to it.” Her eyes were full of tears.

  Kosmas saw her weeping, and felt a limitless, longing love. Never had he been so strongly moved. Not even on that first night, when he had taken her. He left the door open, to show he had no fear of the dead, took her in his arms and caressed her from her toes to the top of her head.

  A day went bythen two, then three. Kosmas saw his mother and sister daily. They said what they had to say to each other. They talked of the house, of relatives and neighbors, of the dead man who still walked about the house and oppressed them, of Crete… . Then there was nothing more to say. Only deep affection united them still, so they were silent.

  He ranged about the narrow alleys, following the old paths of his youth. Here, in this square, at the Three Vaults, his heart had leaped for love for the first time. It was here that he had seen the first girl he had loved, in a golden evening cloud, holding a yellow rose and sprigs of jasmine in her hand. The world had smelled of musk. It was a summer evening, and the unmarried girls in red, green and blue dresses walked up and down, with firm breasts and quick steps. Their hair hung down, ribbons fluttered behind them, and they made secret signs. They were like corvettes flying all their flags and setting out to sea to conquer the world. Pale and shy, the lads trotted behind them. They pretended to tease and make fun of the girls, but their hearts were trembling. Among them was Kosmas, aged sixteen….

  Now he hurried across the square and kept his eyes fixed on the ground, in case he should meet and recognize some fat matron whose eyes might remind him of the ribbon-bedecked girl of that youthful summer evening.

  In Petrokefalo, the grandfather sat in front of the blazing hearth, and froze. His cheeks had fallen in, his knees shook. He stared into the fire and brooded over his life.

  A drover came in and greeted him.

  “Good news for you, old Sefakas. Your grandson Kosmas has arrived in Megalokastro from the Franks’ country. They say he’s got pen and paper, and writes.”

  The grandfather started, and raised his staff, but did not reply.

  It seemed to him that the coming of his grandson was a secret annunciation of death. My hour has come, he thought, and stood up.

  “Take the big ladder on your shoulder, Charidimos,” he said to his shepherd, after the drover had gone, “and come with me.”

  “Where to, old Sefakas?”

 
“I’ve told you a thousand times, you’re not to ask me questions. Be quick about it!”

  Charidimos loaded the ladder onto his shoulder. The grandfather led the way, with the paintpot and brush, hobbling over the cobblestones. When he reached the village square, he pointed at the small, whitewashed bell tower of the church.

  “Lean it against the wall there. Hold it firmly so that I don’t fall. Where’s Thrasaki?”

  “He’s gone out with his crew and the old gun.”

  “That’s right. He has my blessing.”

  The shepherd leaned the ladder against the bell tower, shoved a couple of stones under it and held it firmly with both hands. The old man gasped as he climbed up. Charidimos was terrified. “Lord have mercy on me,” he muttered, crossing himself.

  The graybeard had now clambered to the top of the ladder and had reached the smooth cornerstone just under the belfry. He dipped the brush into the paint, stretched out his arm and began, one after another, to make huge letters. F, R, E … his heart beat joyfully. Who would have foretold, he thought, that my life would end like this? With a brush, a paintpot and letters on the wall! When he had finished his work he bent backward to admire what he had written still holding the paintbrush in his hand. He lost his balance and fell.

  Charidimos yelled. Neighbors came running. The old man’s head was bloody, and he did not utter a sound.

  “His eldest grandson has come back to Crete,” Charidimos explained to the neighbors. “The joy at the news went to his head–”

  The village was convulsed as though an earthquake had destroyed its foundations. All the women with any knowledge of the art of healing hurried to the scene and plied him with ointments. A messenger was sent on mule-back to Megalokastro to fetch Mustapha Baba, who was a good man and doctored Turks, Christians and Jews without distinction. “They’re all ill, the poor things,” he said, “even if they’re Greeks or Jews.”

  Next morning Mustapha Baba arrived, riding the mule. He brought out his small case, opened his little bottles and examined the split gray head with skillful hands.

  On the third day the grandfather opened his eyes. He looked about him and caught sigh of his daughter-in-law Katerina. He beckoned to her. “What’s happening on the mountain? what have you heard from your husband?”

  “He will not surrender,” the wife answered.

  “He’s right,” said the old man. “Put a cushion behind my back, so that I can sit up. I’m tired of lying flat. Send for Kostandes from the pen, I want him.” He shut his eyes again.

  An hour later a fellow appeared, hah’ man, half goat, and stood in front of the small sofa on which the old man lay. This was Kostandes. The grandfather’s eyes were closed. He saw nothing. Kostandes waited patiently, his chin supported on his staff. Some day he’ll open his eyes and see me and tell me what he wants of me, he thought.

  The grandchildren and daughters-in-law stood in a ring around the old man. Thrasaki too came in, with the old gun on his shoulder. He had been on the mountain again, playing at war with his friends. He was waiting to know what would happen to his grandfather, and thenall was preparedhe would lead his band in an attack on a Turkish village and challenge the Turkish youths.

  “You wake him, Thrasaki. You’re not afraid of him,” said Kostandes.

  “I’m not afraid of him, that’s tnie,” replied Thrasaki, “but I’m sorry for him. He’s asleep.”

  The grandfather heard the whispering and opened his eyes. Kostandes moved his huge feet over to him. The old man blinked at the throng that encircled him. He flew into a fury.

  “I’m not dying yet, my half-witted heirs!” he said. “Out with the lot of youf Come here, Kostandes. Bend down!”

  The hairy fellow bent over and received his instructions. Old Sefakas spoke slowly; his breathing was irregular, interrupted by pain. At the end he asked, “Understand, Kostandes?”

  “I understand, old Sefakas.”

  “And afterwards, when you’ve made it known in the villages, hurry down to Megalokastro. Run to my eldest son’s house, you know the one, to my daughter-in-law Chrysula. Take two whole cheeses and a nice lamb for her. My first grandson, Kosmas, has arrived, so they say. See him with your own eyes, touch him with your hands, do you hear? And say to him, ‘Come, your grandfather’s dying. He wants to give you his blessing.’ Understand, you idiot Kostandes?”

  “I understand, old Sefakas.”

  “Well, be off with you! Run!”

  He left, and soon the clattering sound of the nails of his boots died away.

  Next morning both wings of old Chrysula’s street door flew open at one kick, and a hairy fellow carrying two hole cheeses in a sack and a slaughtered lamb under his arm strode over the threshold. With his furry chest bare, and reeking of garlic and onions, he walked into the middle of the yard. He dropped the presents on the ground and leaned on his long shepherd’s staff. The three women were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee. Upstairs Kosmas was getting ready for a visit to the Metropolitan. They had already composed the circular and sent it into the mountains. With sighs the captains bowed their heads as they read. “Since the Mother Country wills it so,” they answered, “we obey her command!”

  But Captain Michales’ answer was still lacking. When he had received the Metropolitan’s letters, he had sent for Polyxigis. The two had shut themselves up in the stone hut, and bolted the door.

  “I won’t submit,” Captain Michales stated. “The Mother Country demands it,” retorted Captain Polyxigis. “Let’s not pull against her.”

  “What Mother Country? I’ve no confidence in the heads that govern there.”

  “You’ve more confidence in your own head?” “What’s the good of joking? No, not in my head, but in my heart. It tells me: don’t submit. And I’m not submitting. Do what your heart tells you.” >i’I have decided to obey.”

  “Then go, and all the best! Leave me as the other comrades have already done. I need no one. Good luck to you and a fair wind hi your sails, my palikar!”

  Captain Polyxigis hesitated. His heart rebelled against the retreat and was unwilling to leave this man to his death.

  “You’re perishing to no purpose, Captain Michales,” he said.

  “In war no one perishes to no purpose,” Captain Michales shouted. “Are you feeling sorry for me?”

  “There was one human being I loved hi the world. You killed her for me. No, I’m not fond of you, Captain Michales. But I don’t like to see you perish. Cretedevil take itstill needs you!”

  “I don’t need Crete any more,” groaned the other. “Go, I tell you.”

  “Haven’t you any thought for your wife? Haven’t you any thought for Thrasaki?”

  “If you value your life, go!” roared Captain Michales, and the veins in his neck swelled. He kicked aside the balks that barred the entrance of the stone hut and shouted for Vendusos.

  “Off with you, Vendusos, take what legs you’ve got and run down to Megalokastro, to the Metropolitan’s Residence. Tell the Metropolitan that I’ve received his letter, and have set fire to its four corners. I’m sending it back to him. I will not surrender!”

  “At your orders, Captain Michales,” said Vendusos, and stuffed the letter into his bosom.

  “Run fast. And if you value your life, don’t come back, Vendusos. Here it’s death.”

  “I’ve children, Captain Michales,” said Vendusos with a sigh, “I’ve my daughter to find a husband for, and my wife and the tavern …”

  “Then don’t come back. You’re VendusosI’m not asking anything of you. Behave like a Vendusos! Take Kajabes and Furogatos with you, too, and look for Bertodulos down there, and Efendina!” Captain Michales growled, and turned his back on him.

  Vendusos clambered swiftly down the hidden path to the plain, sighing and cursing. “You’re Vendusos, behave like a Vendusos.” The words lashed his back as he ran. He reached the town and climbed the staircase of the Residence.

  At exactly that moment Kostandes entered the pa
rental house of Kosmas and stood in the middle of the yard, pressing his hands against his sweating chest. “Long life to you,” he cried, in a voice that was hoarse from a life spent shouting at goats and rams. “Long life to you, women. May you enjoy it! All the best!”

  “Welcome, Kostandes,” said the mother. “Come in. Sit L own and drink some wine. What news have you got for us from the village?”

  “Your father-in-law, Captain Sefakas, is dying, Madame Chrysula. Nothing’s any use to him now. Even the devil’s no use to him now,” said Kostandes, with a loud laugh. “And I’m to give you these presents from him, he says.” He squatted and laid his staff across his bony nees.

  “By God, he’s led a good life: eaten, drunk, killed Turks, filled his yard with children and asses and mares and oxen, turned wild land into plowland, planted vineyards and olives and built a church for his soul, too. He’s insured himself for up there, too. What more could he do with life? He’s hoisted the flag for departure too.”

  Kosmas heard the voices and came down from his room. Kostandes looked him over curiously from head to oot.

  “You are the eldest grandson of old Sefakas, sir? Or am I wrong?” He craned his neck to see him properly. And then he got up and touched him. Grandfather’s orders!

  “No one else,” replied Kosmas.

  “Then your grandfather asks me to tell you to go to him, but quickly, and close his eyes. Quickly, I tell you, if you want to see him still alive. By the sun that’s above us all, I think he’s been waiting for you, sir, all these years, so that now he will be able to give up his soul to the Archangel. ‘Take a mule with you,’ he told me, ‘so that he can ride! I have held an ax, my son a gun, but my grandson, they now tell me, holds a pen. So he won’t be able to run on foot. Take a mule and show him the way. The mule’s at the inn, waiting. Let’s go!”

  To the mistress of the house he said:

  “There’s the news, Madame Chrysula. And the wine you’re offering meI’ll drink it so that you will not be pset.”

  He drank the wine at one gulp, seized a hunk of bread from the table, smacked his lips contentedly and laughed,